by Saul David
'Fanny, please try and understand my position. I have no desire to fight for the sake of fighting, but I certainly will if the Zulus attack Natal. When all is said and done I'm British, not Zulu, as are you and your family. I'm quite sure your father would help to defend the colony.'
'Father would fight to protect his family, yes. But never in a war of conquest like the one Frere has in mind. I can see your mind is fixed on this matter, so I will wish you a happy birthday and bid you goodnight.' Fanny opened the front door and was about to go back inside when she added, almost as an afterthought. 'It might be best, under the circumstances, if we don't see each other for a time.'
'Fanny, please!' he implored. 'Let's not allow politics, of all things, to come between us.'
'It's not just about politics, George,' she said, a tear in her eye. 'It's about you, and whether you're the person I thought you were.'
'I haven't changed.'
'I'm not so sure. Goodnight,' she said, closing the door behind her.
After the fiasco of his birthday dinner, George kept away from Bishopstowe and worked long hours on his uncle's farm, helping to move the small herd of cattle from one scrubby piece of pasture to the next. With Natal in the grip of one of the worst droughts in living memory, there had been no rain for months, and the scorched veldt was all yellows and browns - not a hint of green. The spring foliage had come out small and shrivelled, the wild flowers stunted, and grazing was at a premium.
George revelled in the outdoor life, walking beneath the huge canopy of African sky, staring at the vast and beautiful landscape, thinking, Yes, maybe this is in my blood somewhere. Maybe I could feel I belong here in a way I never belonged at home. This sense of wellbeing was bolstered by the speed with which George improved his spoken Zulu by spending so much time with Mufungu, his uncle's cowherd.
As the weeks passed, and the cattle grew thinner, he picked up snippets of news from the newspapers and from his fellow Carbineers. Sir Bartle Frere had finally arrived in Pietermaritzburg towards the end of September to supervise the long- awaited award of the Boundary Commission, though an announcement had yet to be made; General Thesiger had become Lord Chelmsford on the death of his father; and two more border incidents had taken place, one involving a surveyor from the Colonial Engineer's Department who had been apprehended and questioned by Zulus as he inspected the Middle Drift across the Tugela River near Fort Buckingham. This incident, in particular, had enraged the settler community, and many Carbineers were describing it as the final straw.
George himself was too upset by Fanny's rejection, too preoccupied with his work, to pay much attention to politics. With not enough grazing for the cattle to survive, every day brought the discovery of another carcass. As a last resort, George rode into Pietermaritzburg to buy fodder with his uncle's last few pounds. He was horrified to discover there was none to be had; it had all been bought by the new Lord Chelmsford's commissariat. There was only one conclusion to be drawn. The Colensos had been right all along: the authorities were preparing to invade.
He returned home with the grim news, and was astonished to hear his uncle not only confirm his suspicions but add to them. 'While you were out,' said Patrick, 'a friend of mine called Will Eary dropped by. He's a member of the Buffalo Border Guard on the stretch of the river that includes Rorke's Drift, which, as you know, is a potential point of invasion for either side. Anyway, Will told me some interesting things about his superior, Henry Fynn, the border agent for the district. Apparently Fynn's been telling his men that war with the Zulus is certain, and that when it comes he will settle his differences with a border chief called Matshana who once refused to sell him some of his best cattle because Fynn was offering below market price. When Fynn lost his temper, Matshana ordered him off his land - and ever since Fynn has vowed one day to get his cattle and not pay a penny.'
'He sounds a nasty bit of work,' said George, shaking his head. 'But, even so, how would he know that war was inevitable?'
'I couldn't say for sure. But, according to Will, he's had at least three long meetings with Colonel Crealock, Chelmsford's right-hand man.'
'Crealock?' said George, his heart racing at the mere mention of the name. 'Is your friend certain?'
'Yes. He stood guard at one of the meetings, but has no idea what they discussed.'
'More's the pity. I'd have liked to have been a fly on that wall.'
'Well, it may not be too late to find out.'
'How do you mean?'
'The reason Will is in the area is that he's just escorted Fynn to Pietermaritzburg for a meeting, not just with Crealock but with Chelmsford and Sir Bartle Frere also. It sounds to me very much like a council of war.'
'To me too. When and where does the meeting take place?'
'In the Plough Hotel at two this afternoon.'
George pulled out his watch. 'It's just gone noon. If I leave now, I should have plenty of time to locate the meeting room and find a place to eavesdrop.'
'George, is that wise? If you're discovered, they'll throw you out of the Carbineers, and possibly worse.'
'I know. But I owe it to the Colensos to at least try and find out what the authorities are planning.'
Shortly after one, George strode into the lobby of the redbrick Plough Hotel and almost collided with Major Gossett.
'Hello,' said Gossett, 'what are you doing here?'
George trotted out his cover story. 'Thank goodness I've found you. My uncle's cattle are dying of hunger and I've been told your commissariat has bought all the available fodder. Can you tell me why?'
'It's just a precaution, George, in case the Zulus attack. The general wants to be able to move at a moment's notice, and he can only do that if he has adequate transport.'
'Are you sure that's all there is to it?'
'Whatever do you mean?'
'Well, there are rumours you're planning an invasion.'
'All stuff and nonsense, George, but I won't deny we have to prepare for all eventualities in case it does come to war.'
'So nothing's been decided one way or another?'
'No, absolutely not. The general's meeting Sir Bartle this afternoon to discuss security arrangements for the colony. Nothing more.'
'Will you be present?'
'No, I'm too junior. My job is to see the room's supplied with water, notepaper, that sort of thing.'
'I'll give you a hand. It will give us a chance to catch up properly.'
Gossett nodded his assent, and led George upstairs to a large room on the first floor that was empty but for a long oak table and chairs. George could see at a glance that the only place to hide was in a solid wardrobe in a small ante-chamber off the main room. Crucially the two rooms were not separated by a door.
While he helped Gossett lay out the notepaper, pencils and water glasses, he asked about the award of the Boundary Commission. 'All I know,' said Gossett, 'is that Sir Bartle is still considering it and will make his announcement in a fortnight at the latest.'
'Why has it taken so long?'
'No idea. Presumably Sir Bartle didn't approve of the commission's recommendation.' Gossett glanced around the room. 'Well, I think that's everything. Like to join me for lunch?'
'No, but thank you. I'd better get back to the farm.'
They parted company with a handshake in the lobby. George left the hotel, and gave Gossett enough time to get settled in the dining room before retracing his steps to the first-floor conference room. He made straight for the wardrobe in the anteroom — a heavy oak affair with a looking-glass on the door—and climbed inside, arranging the hanging overcoats as best he could to cover him. It was stuffy and cramped, with not enough room to stand up straight, but he was unconcerned. Hearing the conversation was all that mattered.
With an hour to wait, George closed his eyes and dozed. He was woken by a deep, authoritative voice he did not recognize. '. . . and so my strategy is this: when the Natal authorities announce the award of the Boundary Commission in early Dec
ember, they'll also present the Zulus with an ultimatum. And you'll be glad to hear, gentlemen, that Sir Henry Bulwer has at last agreed to drop his objections and sign the ultimatum.' He guessed it was the Cape governor speaking, and soon had confirmation.
'That's wonderful news, Sir Bartle,' said a voice that sounded like the general's. 'However did you manage to persuade the lieutenant governor to change his mind?'
'I simply told him that it was foolish to allow King Cetshwayo to keep up a perpetual army of thirty to forty thousand disciplined warriors, and that we could not simply withdraw our troops from the border without doing irreparable damage to our imperial prestige. All of which is true. I added that the ultimatum did not necessarily mean war, which is also true, but highly unlikely. We're demanding nothing more or less than the total dismantling of the Zulu military system. If Cetshwayo agrees, he will no longer pose a significant military threat and will almost certainly be deposed; if he doesn't, we'll declare war and invade. Either way the Zulus will, in a few months' time, no longer be an obstacle to confederation and - dare I say it, gentlemen? - progress.'
'May I congratulate you, Sir Bartle,' said a third voice, Crealock's, 'on a masterly achievement. The general and I were convinced that Sir Henry would not budge, yet you have him eating out of your hand.'
'Not quite, Colonel. Let's just say that Sir Henry, like most men, knows what's good for him. But enough of that; tell me about your plans if, as he's bound to, Cetshwayo rejects the ultimatum and decides to fight.'
'May I answer, sir?' Crealock asked his chief.
'By all means,' said Chelmsford.
'Thank you. Soon after we arrived in Natal in August, Sir Bartle, I drew up a contingency plan, which I have here. It's called "Invasion of Zululand, or Defence of the Natal and Transvaal Colony from Invasion by the Zulus", but the second part of the title was merely a sop to placate Sir Henry. The plan was always to take the offensive by invading Zululand with five separate columns, each consisting of at least one battalion of British infantry. The intention is for these columns to converge on Ulundi, the Zulu capital, from five different directions. That way we hope to flush the Zulus out into the open, much like driving pheasants. Our chief worry is that they won't fight, and that we'll be forced to withdraw because of supply difficulties.'
'May I take a look?'
'Of course.'
There was a pause while Frere read the document. 'I see that each column will be composed of British infantry, mounted volunteers, artillery and native levies. Will that be enough firepower to stop the Zulus if they concentrate all their force against a single column?'
'Without doubt. Each column will have a minimum of a thousand British rifles, not to mention the supporting troops. They'll be more than a match for anything Cetshwayo can throw at them.'
'How many native levies?'
'None, until yesterday, when Sir Henry finally gave us the go-ahead to train and equip three regiments of native infantry, six troops of native horse and a force of pioneers. We'll have seven thousand in total, split between the columns.'
'Under whose command?'
'Colonel Anthony Durnford of the Royal Engineers.'
'Isn't he a friend of Bishop Colenso?'
'He is, but he's also a soldier and an ambitious one at that. It was his idea to augment each column with native levies, so it made sense to put him in charge. He speaks the lingo, after all, and has some experience commanding black troops. But his real expertise is as a sapper, and he used it to good effect by writing us an extremely helpful memorandum on bridging the Tugela. The surveyor who was apprehended by Zulus at the end of September was actually carrying out Durnford's instructions to inspect the Middle Drift of the Tugela with a view to ferrying troops across.'
Frere chuckled. 'So the Zulus were right to be suspicious.'
'Yes, but he denied everything and they had to let him go.'
George could not believe what he was hearing. Why would Durnford, of all people, help to prepare the invasion? Surely he wanted to prevent war. It did not make sense.
'And we end up turning the incident to our advantage,' said Frere admiringly, 'by expressing outrage that the Zulus have dared to arrest a harmless white surveyor. Now, as you know, my intention is to issue the ultimatum at the same time we announce the boundary award, to sugar the pill, so to speak. What I need to know is when it would make sense to do this from a military point of view.'
'I think,' said Lord Chelmsford, 'that Mr Fynn might best answer that question. He's a local, after all, and has forgotten more than most people know about the Zulus.'
'I'm flattered you have such faith in me, my Lord,' said a voice with a faint colonial accent. 'But could I first ask Sir Bartle how much time the Zulus will be given to comply with the ultimatum?'
'Thirty days.'
'Then early December would be ideal. That way, if the ultimatum is refused, we'll be able to declare war in early January, when the rivers are in spate, so providing Natal with a natural barrier from a counterattack. It's also harvest time and the Zulus won't be able to sustain a long campaign.'
'Excellent,' said Frere. 'Early December it is. Now, are you sure, Lord Chelmsford, you'll have enough men to complete the job?'
'I will if the War Office agrees to send the two extra British battalions I've asked for. I have six already, but would prefer eight: one for each column, one in reserve and two for garrison duty. But it seems that trouble is brewing in Afghanistan and the Cabinet is worried that it won't have enough troops to fight both wars at the same time.'
'Don't worry about that. I've told Hicks Beach at the Colonial Office that it'll be on the government's head if the war goes badly because your request for more troops was ignored. They'll send them, never fear. They can't afford not to.'
'But if the Cabinet's so keen to avoid a war,' said Chelmsford, 'won't it regard your ultimatum as unnecessarily harsh?'
'Sir Henry's ultimatum, if you please. As Lieutenant Governor of Natal it's only right that he should issue it. But you're right about one thing. The government wouldn't thank me if it knew. Which is why I won't send the details until it's far too late. One of the chief benefits of the one-month time-lag between here and London is that, when the situation demands, we can present policy as a fait accompli. By the time the government learns the truth, we'll have fought and won the war, and no one will be interested in its origins. I'll be well on the way to my peerage and you'll return home heroes.'
' "To the victors the spoils", eh, Sir Bartle?' said Crealock.
'Exactly so, Colonel, exactly so. Well, if there's nothing else, I'll take my leave. I depart for the Transvaal tomorrow and have to be up early.'
'I must go too,' said Chelmsford. 'I need to speak to Colonel Bellairs about the commissariat.'
George heard the door open and close as Frere and Chelmsford departed. He was desperate to be out of the hotel and on his way to Bishopstowe with news of Frere's diabolical plot. But the others seemed in no hurry to leave. George could hear a cork being pulled and the sound of glasses being filled.
'I think congratulations are in order, Colonel,' said Fynn. 'I can't see the Zulus wriggling out of this one. But tell me, how did you win Lord Chelmsford over to our way of thinking? When we last spoke, you said he was hopeful of a peaceful outcome.'
'And so he was, despite Sir Bartle making it perfectly clear to us, when we stayed with him in Cape Town after the frontier war, that he was determined to conquer the Zulus. But I gradually convinced him by arguing that the Zulus posed a considerable security threat to their white neighbours and that it was better to launch first strike than to wait on events.'
'Clever of you. And I take it he knows nothing of our agreement to share the proceeds from the sale of Matshana's famous herd of white cattle?'
'Of course not. For all his faults as a field commander, he's the "honourable" type who would never stoop so low as to profit financially from war. More fool him.'
'I'll drink to that. Talking of
profit and losses, I take it you've been avoiding the gaming tables since our last meeting.'
'Would that it were so, Mr Fynn. I lost twenty pounds only two nights since. I've sustained considerable losses since I arrived in this blasted country, to say nothing of my debts in London. I have never known a run like it. It's sheer bad luck, but without that cattle money, I'm sunk.'
'Worry not, Colonel. It's as good as ours. Here's to a short, sharp and profitable campaign!'
'I'll second that!' echoed Crealock.
George was aghast at what he had just heard. It was bad enough that Britain's senior political and military representatives in southern Africa were plotting war against the wishes of their government. Far worse was the revelation that two of their subordinates were aiming to make money from the conflict. The only consolation for George was that it gave him a hold over Crealock, the only man who suspected his involvement in Thompson's death. As for Durnford, he was clearly not the pacifist Fanny believed him to be, which could only help George's cause in the battle for her affections.